


Truth (I’ve Been Away Too Long, I Know I Have)

by luninosity



Series: The Epic Universe of Porn, Hurt/Comfort, Emotional Trauma, and Love [20]
Category: X-Men: First Class (2011) RPF
Genre: Actually First Times All Over Again, Breakfast Food, Commitment, Emotional Hurt/Comfort, First Time, Healing, Healing Sex, Hope, Introspection, Love, M/M, Memories, Rape Recovery, Rape/Non-con References, Sexual Content, Very Good Mornings
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2012-12-03
Updated: 2012-12-03
Packaged: 2017-11-20 05:19:06
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 9,617
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/581701
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/luninosity/pseuds/luninosity
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Sometimes there are perfect moments, after all; or, the boys get to try to have sex again, at last, on a misty morning.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Truth (I’ve Been Away Too Long, I Know I Have)

**Author's Note:**

> Two more stories, I think, after this one. Title from Toad The Wet Sprocket, as usual; this time, “Come Down”: _won’t you come down/ help me stand/ there is healing in your hands…_

(three months and three weeks precisely)

James woke up happy.

It took him a second to process the emotion. He wasn’t used to that one, not exactly, not anymore. But he was undoubtedly feeling it. Happy.

He was lying in bed, tucked securely in between Michael’s arm and the rest of Michael, that familiar body stretched out all along his side and radiating the usual nighttime heat. One of his feet had gotten pinned between Michael’s calves, as if Michael’d wanted to hold onto him with every available limb. This possibly should’ve reminded him of being trapped, considering the weight of all the arms and legs, but instead he just felt loved.

They’d lost the sheets somewhere in the night, and the air was chilly. The sun hadn’t made it up yet; being lazy, he thought. Much like himself, at the moment.

He wasn’t quite sure why he’d woken up—it wasn’t a nightmare, he rarely had those anymore, these days—but he thought maybe it had been a dream. He couldn’t reconstruct it, though; the fragments evaporated, when he tried.

He remembered warmth, at least. Sensation. Being touched, and not being afraid. And a memory that suggested, fleetingly, desire.

That one likely wasn’t too far off, considering what they’d accomplished, the day before.

Maybe that was why he felt happy. He could see Michael’s expression, when  he shut his eyes, at that moment: incredulous, ecstatic, overjoyed. He’d recognized all those emotions, because he’d been caught up in them, too. And it _had_ been a perfect moment. He wasn’t used to those anymore either, but he knew what they were, and he knew what that had been.

He had ended up tired, afterward—not only physically, from the exertion of the day and being out among the crowds, but emotionally, as the impact of what they’d done had caught up at last and hit him over the head with meaningfulness—but Michael had held him, in their bed, and James had slept, because he could sleep, safely, with Michael there.

He’d woken up later than he’d meant to, long past any rational person’s idea of dinnertime, and had tried to scowl at Michael, but those blue-green-grey eyes had watched him with too much endearing overprotectiveness for any real irritation. He _had_ said, “You were just trying to get out of buying me dinner, weren’t you, I knew you had nefarious plans to avoid taking me on a date,” and Michael’d burst out laughing and kissed him and then tried to convince him to stay in bed all evening and rest.

They’d compromised, eventually. Michael had made dinner, and left James with strict instructions to remain under the covers until summoned, and then to dress nicely. He’d raised eyebrows at that, but hadn’t argued. Had changed into the grey shirt and relatively tight dark jeans that he’d noticed had had an intriguing effect when they’d been shopping, and had run fingers through his hair, leaving it messy because he kind of enjoyed watching Michael stare longingly at the unruly waves and practically vibrate with the desire to touch.

Michael had dropped a spoon, when James’d walked in. He considered this a success.

There’d been candles. And improvised elegance, pasta because that was one of the things Michael knew how to make efficiently, and a fairly lopsided trifle because Michael’d been in a hurry by the time he’d gotten to dessert. James hadn’t been allowed to peek into the refrigerator; he’d thought about sneaking a look, while Michael’d been changing shirts, but had heroically resisted. It’d been worth it. Delicious.

They’d traded smiles, across the table, through the flickering glow. And even their silverware gleamed.

Now that he thought about it, the entire night had consisted of perfect moments. Including this one. In which Michael was not-quite-snoring into his ear.

What they’d done yesterday, on the uncomplaining couch, had been amazing, but it hadn’t been the best moment, the pinnacle of everything. Not yet. What it had been, he thought, was a beginning. And beginnings implied more.

The current perfect moment was being interrupted, gradually, by the awareness that he needed to use the restroom, a fact he cheerfully blamed on Michael and all the wine that had magically appeared during last night’s meal. Michael’s left arm was lying heavily across his stomach, which wasn’t helping this fact. He very much didn’t want to move, but he suspected he’d have to, eventually.

He lay there in all the peace of the not-yet-morning and the serenity of Michael’s love, and decided that it didn’t matter _why_ he was happy. He just was.

After a while inconvenient ghostly light started sidling up to the windows, as the sky inched toward dawn, outside. Michael made a rather pathetic sound, and pushed his face more deeply into James’s hair, and then went back to sleep, emphatically, if it was possible for someone to fall asleep emphatically.

If anyone could, Michael probably could. Michael could express emotion with his _teeth_. James never had quite figured that one out.

“You still owe me a real date,” James told him, through the silver-drenched morning air, “don’t think you’re getting out of it just because you’re adorable,” and Michael said something in his sleep that sounded like “pistachios” and then went back to silent clinging.

“Pistachios, seriously? All right, at least I can sympathize with that, but I think I might have to keep an eye on you when we go to the store and you find the snack food aisle….”

This time Michael just burrowed in more closely. James had meant to stop talking and let them both fall back to sleep, but then that lean body rolled sideways, landing more or less on top of him, and moved one leg with unexpected drowsy force, finding space between James’s knees and pushing them apart.

James felt himself freeze. He didn’t want to, and Michael hadn’t meant the movement to frighten him—Michael wasn’t even awake, he did know that—but the fact of that leg, of all that weight, was right there, solidly real atop him.

“Oh…okay…so you’re not going to move again, are you? So…you can wake up, now, any time, because I don’t think I can move unless you do…”

No. Not working, unfortunately. Beyond the windows, the bone-pale light drifted over the world, misty and pensive; inside, in the puddle of blue satin sheets and pillows and long limbs, James quietly panicked, and then tried not to panic. Wouldn’t help anything. Or anyone.

“I liked you better when you were dreaming about pistachios,” he muttered, and then shoved all the frightened emotions to one side and pretended, firmly, that they weren’t there. Concentrated on extricating himself, bit by bit, from Michael’s hold. Out from under the arm. And the leg, which was more complicated, and he’d nearly worked his way to the other side of the bed before he could sit up and take a breath and be surrounded by open space.

Michael let out a sadly plaintive noise, and nestled one hand into the pillows as if missing his presence. “It’s not your fault,” James said, “and I love you,” and then ran into the bathroom because, now that he was awake and determinedly not terrified, he might as well take care of that need too.

For some inexplicable reason, that helped. Beyond the obvious, of course. That helped also, in terms of physical relief; but mostly it was the sheer mundane nature of the moment, the ridiculous incongruity of the fear and the need to to find the toilet and the morning fog and the green stripes of Michael’s towel on the floor beside him, where it’d tumbled off the rack, because Michael never bothered to hang it up properly.

It was difficult, he concluded, to be frightened of the world when the world, in the shape of Michael’s abandoned towel, was trying so hard to be supremely ordinary.

He picked up the towel, after, and hung it back up. It thanked him, fluffily. He wondered whether he ought to thank it, too, but figured it’d understand.

The floor was icy, beneath his bare toes. The bed would be warm, though. Michael might’ve awakened, too, by now. And he could all too vividly imagine Michael’s reaction to finding him gone.

He started toward the door, and then hesitated, glimpsing himself in the mirror along the way. Went back to look.

He still looked like himself, he decided, after a minute. Same hair. Same lips. Same slightly off-center sprinkling of freckles on his nose. Same—no, the eyes weren’t the same. Not quite. They remained that familiar blue, though. Recognizably his.

Blue, he thought, and smiled, as a distant memory presented itself: Michael stretched out lazily in bed, white sheets and long limbs and laughing eyes, looking up from his laptop to gaze intently at James’s face.

He’d sat up, too. “What?”

“Did you realize—according to imdb—sparkling blue eyes are one of your trademarks? Because—”

“Oh, no. Why are you on the internet? Get off the internet! And that’s stupid anyway, you can’t trademark an eye color!”

“The internet is telling me fascinating stories about you. When did you want to be a priest? Is that true?”

“Give me that! And, maybe, but I was very much younger then and hadn’t had a lot of sex and it sounded simple!”

“It’s my laptop! And I feel like I should apologize, now, for defiling you, or something—”

“Oh, god—”

“Exactly! I feel I’ve just, I don’t know, debauched an innocent choirboy! With spankings! And with the—oh, no, we used the—oh, fuck—”

“—I thought we just did that last part! And you do realize I was thoroughly not-innocent long before I’d ever met you!” Which’d gotten a rather complicated look; Michael had opened his mouth and then shut it again, and James had known precisely about what, or whom, Michael’d been thinking, at that remark.

So he’d grinned, wickedly. Licked his lips, because he knew the motion would be distracting. And then had lunged across the bed, grabbed, and run off to hide the laptop while Michael was too naked to follow.

Michael’d exacted revenge, of course, afterwards. With wrist and ankle cuffs, and leather, and more spankings, and far too much laughter when James’d inadvertently said “Oh _god_ —” again at a certain point.

He’d ended up sleeping on his stomach, that night, which position had prompted worried apologies from Michael the next morning. James had rolled his eyes, pushed Michael back into the bed, and proceeded to demonstrate his lack of fragility by means of an enthusiastic early-morning blowjob.

He looked at himself in the mirror again, remembering laughter. Then breathed in, once, and tugged his shirt off, over his head. Eyed bare skin, for the first time.

He’d gotten naked, of course, in the intervening months—he’d mastered early on the art of avoiding mirrors while hopping into the shower—but he’d never wanted to look. To see how much he’d changed.

He studied his reflection, warily. It didn’t try to leap out of the glass and pounce on him, or attempt any tricks of distortion or accusatory glares. It just watched him, with those not-quite-the-same blue eyes.

Okay, he thought. That’s still me, too. That’s very definitely my chest, with those freckles in _that_ spot. And then, oh, I really do look thin. No wonder Michael’s been buying all the food. I should probably try to eat more.

His reflection, calmly, agreed. Without condemning, though. Merely quiet acceptance of it all. James took another small breath, and looked at the scars.

Some of them he remembered, from the beginning of that night. Some of them he didn’t. Those’d happened later, he thought. The longest one, a slim silvery-pink line that flowed from his chest to the small dimple of his belly button, he did remember. He’d been awake for that.

He didn’t recall the two smaller parallel lines on either side of it, though. Or the roughly circular smudge on the right side of his chest, just across from his heart. That one looked as if someone’d dug a knifetip in and twisted, seeking a response. After a second, he touched it. It felt like skin, to his exploring finger, but the spot itself registered sensation a bit too dully, compared to the unwounded expanse around it.

He let the fingers drift upward. Brushed them over his throat. Nothing visible anymore, though there had been. Bruises and silence and aching darkness, for weeks. And one smaller knife-line, near the base of his throat, though he couldn’t even see that one at first and had to search for it, to find it.

He wondered, briefly, whether Michael could find it, or if Michael didn’t see the scars, or still only saw all the blood.

This time he glanced at his arms, because he’d been moving them. No scars there, not really. Not from that night, anyway. He’d had bruises, abraded skin, from the cruel metal of too-tight handcuffs, but mostly he’d been too drugged and dizzy to tug at the restraints, or too unconscious, later. The single scar on _that_ wrist, though, he knew intimately, because it was his own.

He touched that one, too. It didn’t seem to mind. Said, to his curious fingers, you’re still here. Yes, I am, he answered, and smiled. Took one more deep breath, and then stepped out of his pajama pants, too.

The mirror didn’t quite cover everything, so he had to look down. This was, he decided after a few seconds of tilting his head, more awkward than it should’ve been. Maybe they needed a full-length mirror.

He paused to wonder whether Michael might appreciate that idea. Especially in the future. Because they did have a future. He could see it, from here. Even if he was technically still clumsily looking himself up and down.

“It was figurative,” he grumbled, at his eloquently voiceless reflection, “and we both know what I meant, so be quiet,” and then touched one of the scars, along his inner thigh, gently.

He knew the story behind those. He knew the feeling of a knife’s hilt sliding up inside him, into that most intimate of spaces, leaving the blade out to scrape over delicate skin when he struggled, or when someone else turned it and pressed edge and flesh together. There were a few more of those particular lines than he thought he’d recalled, but that wasn’t really a surprise.

The surprise, he thought, was that they were only scars. They came with memories of pain and helplessness and blood and fear, but those were only scars, too. They couldn’t hurt him, unless he let them. And he _was_ still here.

So was Michael. Here, through everything. Here right now, in their bed, in fact. He contemplated that image for a minute. It was an intriguing image.

Apparently very intriguing. Certain other parts of him had decided to take an interest, as well. He couldn’t help looking at that, too, because he had to: he _could_ be interested. Could want, and be wanted by, Michael, again.

His fingertips tingled, thoughtfully reminding him of the day before, the warmth of Michael’s cock in his hand, slippery and aroused and pulsing with heat, for him, because Michael wanted him. Laughter, he thought, and sunlight, and those memories leapt joyfully into place and chased away the shadows and replaced them with desire.

He’d promised Michael that they’d attempt more. Right now, he thought that maybe that wouldn’t be a  difficult promise to keep. He thought that _attempt_ might not be the verb he was looking for.

Succeed at, perhaps. He rather liked the sound of that one.

So he grinned—his reflection grinned back, understanding—and then put back on his clothes, because the morning was unhelpfully frigid, and opened the door and wandered back out of the bathroom.

Michael was sitting up, surrounded by attentive pillows, and looking sleepily concerned. “You—”

“I’m here. I’m fine. You don’t need to worry.” He slid back into bed, and into Michael’s arms, when they lifted to welcome him.

“Yes I do. You were—I woke up and you were—”

“Not here. I know. I’m sorry. But I _am_ here. I’m not going anywhere. I want to be here. With you.”

The pearl-grey shimmer of pre-dawn tiptoed up to the window, outside. Peered inquisitively around the shades, and then snuck in through the cracks to hang crystals in the air.

Michael’d always liked to sleep naked, even in the cold; James had discovered that early on. Michael liked the crisp sensation of chilly night against his skin, and walked around being comfortable and relaxed with his own body. James, on the other hand, had brought over pajama pants, the second night they’d shared a hotel room—not the first night, because he’d been far too enjoyably occupied to think of anything that wasn’t Michael—and generally assumed that himself naked shouldn’t be imposed on people more often than strictly necessary.

Michael’d stared at James and the pajama pants, and then lifted both eyebrows with an expression that said _really?_ and James had shrugged, embarrassed for no good reason, and Michael’d grabbed them out of his unresisting hand and flung them across the room and yanked James into his arms in the center of the bed.

He never had found that particular pair of pants afterward, even when he’d looked, in the morning. Not that he’d looked very hard.

Michael had been sleeping with clothes on, pajama pants and worn t-shirts and occasionally even socks, since they’d come home and started sharing a bed again.

At the moment, he could feel the heat of Michael’s body even through the night’s wrinkled shirt, where his face rested on one solid shoulder. Those arms had stayed folded around him, holding him securely, and Michael was breathing not quite evenly into his hair.

He’d let one of his arms wrap around Michael, too, when he’d come back to bed. The other one was wedged between them, and disloyally falling asleep, but that wasn’t uppermost in his thoughts, at the moment.

He traced fingers over Michael’s back, tentatively. Muscle, under the white cotton of the night’s t-shirt. Taut and honed and powerful. But Michael would never hurt him. Had been spending long months and weeks and days trying desperately not to hurt him. Even before that, had always been careful with him, asking, comforting, stopping, in bed, whenever they might’ve needed to. He remembered all of that. Very clearly.

Michael was plainly trying with all his might not to do or say the wrong thing, for as long as James felt like touching him; those muscles were tense, beneath his hand. But the breathing got even more unsteady, when James walked fingers down to the hem of the shirt, and slipped his hand under it.

“James—”

“I think you should take this off.”

“You—you want me to be…shirtless? Around you?”

James smiled, inwardly and visibly as well, where Michael could see the expression. Tapped his fingers against sleep-heated skin. “No. I want you to be naked around me.”

Michael rolled away, dislodging them both. Sat up, through all the startled grey light. Blinked.

“I was comfortable there,” James said, mostly because he had been, and grabbed the nearest pillow for something to hold onto instead. It wasn’t the same.

“You…did you just say…”

“That I was comfortable? I was, until you decided to toss me into the pillows. And also…you do realize I’ve seen you shirtless, since, um. Anyway. I meant that. I think I’d like you to be naked now.”

“You have? When? And…sorry about the pillows. You surprised me. I’m still surprised. Are you seriously asking…”

“When you were on the phone, that morning. And a few times since then. You keep forgetting to bring clothing with you, when you go off to shower. And you might’ve noticed that I haven’t exactly been reminding you. So, yes, asking.”

“ _That_ morning…I’m still sorry about that. I wish I hadn’t left you alone.”

“I’m not sorry. Not really. I mean, of course I am, what I did was incredibly stupid, but…” This time he sat up, too. Set a hand on Michael’s bare forearm, over anxious muscles.  “I’m not sorry that we started…being more honest, after. If we needed that—if I needed that—we’re better, now. And also I did get to see you without a shirt. Which I appreciated. And would like to appreciate again.”

This earned a small and somewhat doubtful headshake, and those wintergreen eyes remained far too uncertain; the world felt cold, around them, blue sheets and white walls and chilly light.

James shook his head too, but for a different reason, and then leaned forward and kissed Michael, as the first hint of dawn came up beyond the window and greeted the world.

After a while, Michael paused, fingers trailing over James’s cheek, and smiled. The eyes weren’t completely certain, not yet, but they were excited, or starting to be, fire catching in the wintry depths.

Michael didn’t ask whether he was sure, this time, when James found the hem of his shirt again and pointedly tugged. Just grinned back, elated and conspiratorial, and helped.

“I definitely appreciate you without a shirt.”

“Good?”

“Extremely good. Pants?”

“Are you—”

“If you ask me one more time if I’m sure, I’m going to hit you with this pillow. It’s right here. Next to my hand.”

“Why are our pillows all taking your side in this discussion?”

“They like me better,” James said, and pulled off Michael’s pajama pants, and everything else, somewhat inadvertently, also.

There was a complicatedly wordless second, during which they both thought about the impressive physicality of arousal, and then James offered, before Michael could attempt to either apologize or start to put his pants back on, “Ah…good morning?”

“Um…it likes you, too. Sorry?”

“No. I’m not scared of you being naked, you know.” So you hope, said part of his brain, rather smugly. Or are you pretending? You do remember what this feels like, something like this, inside you, hurting you? Or did we forget all the pain so soon?

Something _like_ this, he retorted, silently. And I do remember what _this_ feels like. With Michael. So you can shut the hell up now, please, and thank you.

He couldn’t quite look up, though, or move any closer. Couldn’t really see anything else, besides the expectant length of iron-hard desire. Poised and waiting. For _him_.

“James?” Michael sounded afraid, suddenly. “James, are you—can you look at me? I love you, please—I _knew_ this was too soon, too much, I’m so sorry, you don’t have to, I love you—”

Somewhere in the middle of Michael’s frightened words, he figured out how to get air back into his lungs. And then did it again, and again, until it became easier. And then he did look up, and met, apologetically, frantic eyes with his own.

“I’m…okay. I promise. And it’s not your fault, and it’s not too much.”

“Yes it is, and you—you went absolutely white, just now. I thought—you should lie down. Come on. You can have all the pillows.”

“Oh, please. I’m not an invalid. I just…wasn’t quite expecting…that reaction. But you…you _are_ you. Not him, I mean. You were worried. About me. And I can…can I touch you? I did, yesterday, and you seemed to like that.”

“Of course I’m worried about you! And…I did like that, you know that, you were there…and yes, you can, if you want. If that’s what you want. But I’m not convinced you should be doing anything at all—”

At which point Michael stopped talking, because James had stretched a finger out and brushed it against all the arousal, curiously.

Michael didn’t _feel_ that terrifying. Certainly not if that faintest touch could bring a halt to everything, word or motion.

He ventured a few more fingers, trailing them up and down over hardness. Wrapped his hand around the shaft, feeling the heat of it quiver, surrounded by his hand. Essayed an exploratory stroke, and then, encouraged by Michael’s heartfelt little groan, more.

Michael wanted him. But _want_ didn’t have to mean _pain_. And Michael wasn’t controlling him, wasn’t forcing him or demanding anything of him or even asking. He could stop, whenever he wanted to.

Knowing that, he didn’t want to stop. Not now.

He wiggled a little closer, in the bed. Onto his stomach. Glanced at Michael’s face; Michael appeared to be holding his breath.

James tried not to laugh, and then kissed that flat stomach, a whisper of lips over skin; kissed him again, lower down, the start of that beckoning trail of autumn hair; and then exhaled, lightly, lips settling over the swelling tip of Michael’s cock.

“ _James_ —”

“Hmm?” He could feel the pulse points, the thumping ache of desire, when he touched his tongue, briefly, to sensitive skin.

“I—you—oh, god—”

“You did say it liked me. I think I might like it, too. Or a slightly different verb.”

“What—”

He took a steadying breath. Licked, slowly, discovering the sensation, the silken hardness, against his tongue. And then again, even more deliberately, base to tip, where he paused to run his tongue over the already-wet slit.

Michael gasped. James grinned, to himself, and then opened his mouth even more and took Michael inside.

That annoyingly self-aware part of his brain thought: oh, look at that, look at me, I’m doing this! And then immediately got crowded into a corner and sat on by all the other thoughts, the ones that just said _heat_ and _need_ and _love_ and _yes_.

Yes, he agreed, not out loud, and employed lips and tongue in a certain combination, one that he was pretty sure he remembered Michael liking, and Michael made a noise that’d probably started as his name but didn’t end up as any word at all.

He couldn’t help being proud of that one.

Maybe he could get Michael to make that sound again. He tried that particular motion one more time, and then again, a bit more firmly. Michael made a different but equally interesting sound, and then, no doubt instinctively, put a hand on James’s head, heavy weight, fingers twining into his hair.

And then jerked the hand away, obviously belatedly registering what he’d done. “James—”

James stopped, too. Sat up, and looked at those pale eyes, worriedly remorseful in the opalescent light.

“James, I’m sorry, I didn’t—we can—you don’t have to do anything else, okay? If you don’t want—I’m so sorry.” The apology, the concern, were all genuine; but there was another undercurrent, too, in that flexible voice, one that James needed a second to figure out. But when he did, he understood.

Relief. Of course; Michael probably thought that they’d found some kind of boundary, some clearly-defined line between want and discomfort, a step toward deciphering the new rules.

Michael’s fingers had been warm, touching his head.

“You can.”

“…what?”

“You can do that. If you want to.”

“What?”

“Seriously? That wasn’t clear?” He wanted to laugh, now, but that probably wouldn’t help recapture the mood. “You can touch me. Maybe just don’t, ah, push, or hold me in place, but…I didn’t mind. I wouldn’t mind your hand being, um. There. On me.”

“You…did you mean that? You did stop. Do you want to stop? Because I don’t mind if—”

“Michael,” James said, as patiently as he could under the circumstances, “I stopped because _you_ were worried. Not for me.” Which might be half a lie—he possibly had needed the second to think about it—but he’d thought about it now, and he’d decided he truly didn’t mind.

He wanted more, in fact. So when Michael opened his mouth to object again, James leaned down and took all of that slightly-lessened but still-impressive length into his mouth. At once.

Michael tried to inhale all the air in the room, choked, coughed, and James couldn’t not laugh, this time. “Sorry, were you not expecting that?”

“James—you—oh, fuck.”

“Well, yes.”

At which point Michael gave up and collapsed into laughter, too.  James watched him for a few minutes, contentedly. Around the edges of the window, the polished-pearl light gave way to rose and gold.

“I love you.”

“I love you, too. You know…you can…I don’t mind if you want to sleep naked. Thank you for that, by the way. I never said, but I did notice. And I do appreciate what you were doing. But you can go back to being naked now.”

“James…”

“And yes, I mean that. I might enjoy you being naked.” He ran a hand across Michael’s nearest hip, over receptive curves and hollows. Found that inviting arousal again, waiting for his touch. It hardened even further, under his hand.

Michael stared. Said his name again, somewhere between a question and a plea. So James kissed the tantalizing tip, and then played with it, taking in only enough to trace patterns over sensitive skin with his tongue.

“Now you’re just teasing me…”

“True. Sorry. Is this better?”

 “James—no, no, wait, I’m not—not now, not _yet_ —”

James pulled back long enough to inform him, “Yes, now, I want you to,” and then went back to what he’d been doing earlier, in earnest this time, and Michael gasped again and those hips snapped upwards, thrusting more deeply into his mouth, but that was all right, that was Michael wanting him, and Michael’s hand in his hair again, no force behind the contact at all, only the need to connect them both in every possible way.

James understood that need. Very, very well.

He felt himself smile, thinking that, and maybe Michael did too, because the fingers abruptly tightened in his hair and Michael came, shuddering release, into his throat.

He swallowed. Swallowed a second time. Realized, while sliding his tongue all over Michael’s spent cock, cleaning and licking and collecting every last drop, that he was astoundingly, brilliantly, achingly, excited.

No doubt. No fear, at all. Only yearning, shimmering through his entire body like gold and sunlight.

“Michael?”

“You…that…I think you broke my words. Are you…”

“I’m wonderful. And apparently so are you.” He kissed Michael’s thigh, tracing a thoughtlessly random shape over quiescent muscles with his tongue.

“Was that a heart?”

“Not really. Just tasting you. But it could’ve been a heart, if you want to think it was.”

“James…” Michael pushed himself up, on supportive elbows. Gazed at him, eyes lingeringly hazy with the afterglow, but open and sincere, when they searched his face. “Are you…do you want…are you done? For now? Or can I…um, reciprocate?”

“I think yes. To the last question. If you want to. I mean, I definitely want _you_. In case you hadn’t noticed.”

“I did notice…but…”

“But?”

“You’re still very…clothed. You have clothes on. I didn’t—I don’t want to ask, if you’re not comfortable…”

“Oh.” That might be a problem, yes. He toyed with the sleeve of his too-large shirt, thinking. The morning-glory light crept up next to his hand, too, encouragingly. And Michael was watching him, not expectantly, because Michael would never make those sorts of demands, but wistfully, as if the prospect of hope might be hovering in the air inches out of reach.

He sighed, not out loud because both Michael and the sunlight would probably panic, and then stopped thinking about the action and tugged the shirt off, over his head.

When the fabric left his fingertips, it floated over to the carpet and settled into a heap beside the hamper, because he’d misjudged the distance; he watched it until it ceased moving, and then looked up, at Michael’s face, because he finally needed to know.

Michael was staring. He’d expected that.

He’d not expected the expression in those changeable eyes, though.

Awe. Amazement, and admiration, and pure unadulterated love, and awe.

He couldn’t help laughing, shakily, out of sudden embarrassment. “You—”

“James,” Michael breathed, and sat up more, and put out a hand, not quickly but almost helplessly, as if he couldn’t do anything else, in that moment, other than reach out. “Can I—?”

He _knew_ he was blushing. Could feel it, everywhere; but he took Michael’s hand anyway and kissed it and then set it on his chest, over his heart, where Michael’d be able to sense the beat of it, pounding through the shared touch. A promise.

Michael opened his mouth. Closed it. Opened it again.

“I love you?” James suggested, and the hand flattened more closely over his heart, even as Michael laughed, soft and astonished, and shook his head.

“Yes. Oh, god, yes. I love you so damn much. And you—you’re gorgeous. You do—you know that, right? You are.”

“Oh, really, come on, you don’t have to say—”

“Yes you fucking are!”

 “Okay, I might’ve imagined this moment with a little less profanity.”

“…you…imagined this moment?”

“What did you think I was doing, in the bathroom? Oh—no, I know what you—I’m sorry. Again. But, um, what I was actually doing was being naked. And…looking.”

“Looking…James, when I tell you you’re gorgeous, I mean it. I’ve always meant it, but now…this…” Michael shifted his hand. Touched, tentatively, the closest knot of blurrily-healed pinkness. Then followed the lines, with one finger, down over bare chest and stomach and exposed skin. “You’re incredible. You’re still here. With me.”

“Funny…” He stretched out, into the accepting bedclothes. Beside Michael, who hadn’t stopped running fingers over him. So he rolled onto his back, making access easier, and heard Michael breathe in.

“What?”

“What—oh, what was funny? Just…I thought that, too. Earlier. About me, but also about you. That we’re both still here.”

“I love you.”

“I love you and your profanity.”

“James…”

“Michael?”

“Does this—this doesn’t hurt, or anything, right? When I…” The fingers wandered across the scars again. Learning them. Memorizing them, like the new contours of a redrawn map, once-known territory reordered and reshaped, but recognizably the same, beneath it all.

“Not at all.” True. He’d thought this might be difficult, Michael’s hands and eyes reading those marks, acknowledging the ugly souvenirs as part of his body now. But the acceptance in that touch made everything easier, somehow.

Everything, he thought, and made a decision, and smiled.

 

When James moved his hands, an unexpectedly quick change of position, Michael flinched. Had he done something wrong, something too intense? He swallowed, and started to apologize; and then James slid hands under the waist of his pajama pants and lifted his hips and lost every stitch of clothing and consequently Michael forgot how to say anything.

James laughed again, sounding nervous, this time. The rose-pearl light flickered through his eyelashes, when he blinked. “You did make an offer, earlier. About reciprocating…”

“Oh my _god_.”

“Ah…is that a good response, or should I be worried? Because I know I’m not…I know you hadn’t actually seen…those, yet. My legs. And I—”

“It’s a good response!” He kissed James, while that mobile mouth remained open, mid-sentence; James smiled again, into the kiss, after a second.

“Oh, good, because—”

“Why are you still talking? Clearly I’m not appreciating you enough. Come here.”

“Oh…” James shivered when Michael touched him, hand settling over one pointed hipbone, drifting up to his waist, then back down, finding every atom of skin along the way. Shivered again, and then relaxed into the closeness, when Michael kissed him the second time, tongue questioning, exploring more deeply when met with an utter lack of resistance.

No. Not only a lack of resistance. A welcome. James kissing him back. Eagerly.

And he’d just had the best orgasm of his life mere minutes ago, but evidently James kissing him could overcome any amount of exhaustion, because he could feel himself growing interested again, even more so when James made a happy little noise and wriggled against him, in the bed.

“You like this? Me touching you?”

“I like _you_.” Sapphire eyes met his, joyfully; the rumpled sheets and satiny pillowcases, not quite as blue as that unmatchable gaze, beamed up at them too. “You know…when we said reciprocate…I also said more. Yesterday.”

“I thought this _was_ more.”

“It is. But…if you want to… _really_ more.”

“James…are you saying…you want to…”

“I’m saying that I’d like to try to have sex with you sometime this morning, yes.”

“Try?”

“Um…no promises. I honestly don’t know…I mean, I know I want you. Obviously. But this _is_ the first time, and…”

“If you aren’t sure—”

“I am sure. Just…go slowly, all right?”

“Of course. And you…promise you’ll tell me if you want to stop. If I’m doing anything you don’t like, or that makes you nervous. Or—”

“I promise,” James said, and then picked up Michael’s right hand and put it back on his hip. “Touch me, now, though? That does help. Reassuring, I think.”

“Then I will.” He couldn’t move right away, though. The sight of his hand, his own fingers, resting over white skin, enchanted him. Magical, he decided. Entrancing. The freckles, winking up at him like carelessly scattered sequins, agreed.

He’d seen the way James hadn’t looked at him, immediately, after peeling off that shirt. The hesitance, and the surprise, in those deepwater eyes, when James finally had.

If he could have, at that moment, he would’ve been shouting every comforting word he could think of, but the truth was that he hadn’t been able to think of any words at all, because he’d been enraptured. Honored. Humbled by the sight. By the trust.

He’d known, factually, that there were more scars. He’d seen some of them, in the early weeks, the days he’d stood outside the shower and waited for James to emerge, pulling a too-large shirt over wet hair. The quick glimpses, once James had become comfortable enough to at least change clothing with Michael in the room. Even before that he’d read the medical reports.

But he’d never really known. James hadn’t let him in, not that far. And now James _had_.

He stared at the watercolor-pink of the longest reminder, faded now and framed by barely-visible companions. Followed it up, only with his eyes, to the larger twist of shining skin, across from James’s heart, where Michael’d just been feeling the steady rhythm. And then back down, a glance at his hand, long fingers interrupting, reverently, the giddy splashes of freckles. And then he looked at those wounded thighs, and didn’t look away, because he’d heard the self-doubt, disguised by plushly-textured Scottish velvet, in that voice.

James was blushing again. The color spread out over all the freckles in waves; Michael hadn’t ever realized that James could blush in _those_ places.

“Sorry, I know I should’ve warned you, or something—”

“James, don’t be an idiot.”

Jewel-blue eyes widened, for a second, and then danced along with the laughter, when that spilled over, too, into the morning air. “All right, I won’t apologize, then, I only thought—”

“You never have to apologize. Can I see? More closely, I mean?”

“Um…yes. But…” James reached down. Caught Michael’s hand in his, thumb stroking restlessly over impatient fingers. Michael held very still, and let him play. “It’s a bit…worse when you get close. Here…”

Before Michael could ask, James had moved both their hands, fingers entwined, between long legs. Brushing against the skin of one inner thigh, where he hadn’t been able to see because those legs’d remained resolutely together. And then he realized what James meant, and then had to bite his lip, because he was afraid he’d say something violent and vengeful and not at all what James needed to hear.

Instead, purposefully, he twitched fingers until James let go of his hand, and then rested it over the uneven skin, fingers and palm and every spot he could connect, finding every possible millimeter of contact between them.

“Oh,” James said, very quietly, and Michael had to bite into his lip again, because when he glanced up those blue eyes were glittering with unshed tears.

“I did ask you if I could see. Can I?”

“…yes?”

At which point there was another delay, in which Michael waited for James to part the legs and let him look; eventually, he figured out that James was waiting for him to say something a bit more specific.

“Um…can you…move a little? Sorry.”

“Oh, no, I’m sorry, I should’ve realized—”

James did move, then, legs falling open for him, over gold-washed blue sheets, as the sun advanced over the horizon, and the day began.

Michael stared, for a minute, and then leaned over and kissed all the roughnesses, lips and tongue and welcome and love, everything he could offer, all that he was.

James gasped, softly; when Michael looked up, the tears were falling, finally, bright as diamonds, but they stopped and vanished when they met the radiance of James’s smile.

“I love you.”

“I know you do. And I love you. And this…” He licked one specific spot. Then another. And one more.

“What _are_ you doing?”

“Finding your freckles?”

“There?”

“I like your freckles. I love your freckles. You’re gorgeous, have I told you that?”

“You have,” James muttered, “and I am not,” but he was continuing to smile, Michael could hear it.

He’d made James smile. They were naked in bed, and he’d made James smile. All at once he felt like he could do anything. Anything at all. Invincible.

And then he paused, and corrected that thought. _He_ wasn’t invincible. _They_ were. Together.

“You look unbelievably pleased with yourself.”

“I am. But I’d rather _you_ were unbelievably pleased with me. Didn’t you ask me for more?”

“I think I did, yes. So…go on, then. Please me.”

“Happy to.” This time he moved his hand, and worked fingers in between those thighs, not actively trying to touch the scars, but not avoiding them, either. Let his hand drift higher; no objections, not yet, not when his fingers traced the base of James’s cock, carefully. The ocean-water eyes were fixed on his hand, but more inquisitive, he thought, than afraid.

He slid the fingers back a bit further, between those legs, nudging them further apart; and then he did hear the change in James’s breathing, and stopped. “Are you all right?”

He did have to ask, he knew. He might always have to ask. James, so badly hurt both physically and emotionally, and so ready to be submissive in bed even before that, might not tell him, otherwise. Not without coaxing.

He could always ask, if that was what they needed. He’d never mind saying the words.

“James?” He tried to make the question as gentle, as nonthreatening, as he could, fingers immobile now, just resting in place.

James breathed in, a single awkward gasp of air through the silence. Then whispered, “Sorry…”

“No. It’s fine. This is fine. We can stop if you want to. And that’ll be fine, too. Whatever you say you want to do now. And I love you, all right?”

“All right…I love you, too.”

“I know. Are we stopping, then?” He started to take the intruding hand away, but James shook his head; Michael paused, surprised.

“No. I want this. I want you. I want to be able to do this with you. Just—talk to me for a minute, maybe?”

“Of course.”

He sat up a bit more; thought about moving the hand, and James, who apparently could still read his mind, said, “Don’t. Please.”

“Oh. Okay. Um….” What would James want to hear, at this moment? For some reason no perfect words instantly presented themselves. Nothing right. Unhelpful, he thought, and hated his brain. “Is there…what do you want me to…is there anything in particular I should talk to you about?”

“Oh, god—” But James was smiling; the warmth of it crinkled and settled into the corners of those bottomless eyes. “I don’t know, I didn’t exactly have anything in mind…um, how’re you?”

“Me?” Michael studied his own fingers, long and calloused against that gold-and-cinnamon-dusted skin. Thought about, and discarded, several possible responses. Went with, truthfully, “Kind of hungry.”

James stared at him, wide-eyed, and then burst out laughing.

“Well, you did ask,” Michael said, to the happy eyes. He felt like laughing, too, suddenly. Like the daylight, sneaking its way under his skin.

“I suppose I did…I love you. So much.”

“I know. I love you, too.”

“Yes. You do. Um, I can make you waffles, if you want. After.”

“After?”

“Well, we are sort of busy at the moment. Speaking of…”

“Are you sure? Because I don’t mind if—”

“Yes, I am. It’s better. Now. You’re fantastic.”

“I think you mean _you’re_ fantastic. Waffles, seriously?”

“Well, not if you don’t do something _now_.”

Michael had his mouth open to make a comment about excessive impatience, but stopped, as a sharp-fanged memory surfaced: James talking, saying, quietly, _he told me he remembered how much I loved being fucked, begging him for it…_ And he shut his mouth, firmly, on the words. James didn’t need to hear about impatient desires. Nothing even close to a reminder.

“Only if you really mean it.”

“About the waffles? I don’t know, I might feel like pancakes instead…All right, you can stop looking at me like that. Yes, I know what you’re asking, and yes, I mean it. Please.”

“Okay.” Lube, he thought, and then proceeded to use far too much, spilling it over James and his own fingers and the sheets, saturating them all with raspberry flavoring. It was the only one they had, because he hadn’t bought any lately, of course not, but this one’d been sitting untouched in the drawer where he’d flung it, because he’d been planning to save it for after the party, back when he’d thought that after the party meant a promise of joy.

He’d bought it, on a whim, on another sunlit morning that felt like centuries ago. Because James liked raspberries.

James started to say something, probably about the unexpected tidal wave of fruit-flavored slipperiness, and then looked at his face, and didn’t. Just smiled.

“Okay,” Michael said, one more time, and didn’t let his voice shake, and moved the fingers again, finally, finding that small pink spot, caressing vulnerable flesh, gently. James breathed out, a barely perceptible release of sound into the world, when he traced a wet finger around the rim.

“Does this hurt?” He could feel the scar tissue, thicker and more irregular than the surrounding unmarked skin, against his fingers.

“No.”

“Are you—”

“Yes, I’m sure. And yes, I would tell you.”

He took a breath. Asked the other half of that question. “Do you—does this still feel good, for you?”

James pushed himself up on his elbows, at that. Studied Michael’s face, blue eyes intently honest. “Yes. Not as sensitive, maybe. But that might be a good thing. I mean, for now.”

“You said it didn’t hurt.”

“Yes, and I don’t want it to. I didn’t say stop, you know.”

“I know.” He pressed the finger forward, incrementally. James didn’t move, or protest, or pull away. A bit more, then. A bit deeper.

“Mmm.”

“Still good?”

“Yes. More?”

“Anything you want.” All the way inside; the glide of entry came more easily than he’d expected, smoothed out by all the wetness, by James relaxing, under his touch, eyes remaining huge and fixed on Michael’s face.

He crooked the finger, slightly; watched the eyes widen, almost imperceptibly. Stroked again, and heard James gasp. “That—there—”

“Still like that?”

“Yes—” James shivered. Tipped his head back, into the pillows, biting his lip. “Yes. Please.”

“Please what?” And then he wanted to bite his own tongue in half. They weren’t doing that. They couldn’t do that. James would probably never want to fall into those roles again.

It’d just been habit. Stupidly so.

James blinked at him. “Please…more?”

“Okay.” More. Not _sir_. James wasn’t thinking anything like that. Of course not. Shouldn’t be.

He found that spot again, the one that’d earned such breathless noises, and rubbed his finger across it, harder this time, because James had talked about being less sensitive, and got a shuddering moan. So he did it a second time, and then just didn’t stop, as James kept making fascinating sounds, beneath his hand, arching up against him, pushing back.

“Michael—”

“More, you said,” Michael told him, and then pressed the second finger against that yielding space, feeling James open for him, slowly, the tiny bud loosening and complying with the penetration.

James whimpered, eyes falling shut.

Michael stopped moving, for a second. “Don’t—please don’t hide from me. I want you to look at me. So I know you’re all right. Please.”

James smiled, at that. Murmured, “I’m all right, and I love you, and you’re worrying too much,” and then opened his eyes anyway, contentedly blue against the backdrop of the sheets. “Better?”

“Yes, and I love you too, and I’m worrying exactly enough. How’s this?”

“ _This_ is wonderful.”

“More?”

“Still yes.”

“Yes, then.” A third finger, gradually, stretching that vulnerable tightness wider at his touch. James kept smiling up at him, serenely trusting. Michael gazed at that smile. Found himself believing it.

“So…how do you want…do you want me on top? Like this? Or do you want to, um…” He ran out of words. Attempted a vague gesture with the other hand, hopefully indicating _do you want me to lie down and let you be on top of me and in control?_ and James made an amused noise in response.

“You waited until now to ask me this?...Um, I think the second one, actually. If you don’t mind. Not sure why.”

“All right. And of course I don’t mind. And you don’t have to explain.” He rolled onto his back, making sure none of the movements felt too sudden. Set his free hand over a celestial swirl of playful freckles, on the closest hip, for support, physical and otherwise.

James swung one graceful leg over him. Hesitated. Then smiled, and put his hand on top of Michael’s, holding it there, and slid down, slightly. Stopped with Michael just barely inside.

“What is it? Are you—we can stop, it’s okay if—”

James squeezed his hand, over that hip. “I’m fine. I just forgot how, um, much of you there is. That’s all.”

“I’m not certain,” Michael admitted, after a second, “whether to say thank you or apologize,” and James laughed. And then moved.

And caught a breath, with the motion, eyes alight with sensation, meeting Michael’s. The universe forgot how to speak, around them, at the sight.

When James slid lower, taking in that final exquisite inch, Michael whispered, “I love you,” the words falling out, unbidden and spontaneous and true. Like an incantation. Or a prayer.

James grinned. Lifted up, back down, settled into place, pale thighs framing Michael’s hips. Then arched his back, and rocked forward, testing. Michael tensed all over. Tried to keep himself from thrusting, pushing back, in response. Failed.

“Missed me, did you?” And James sounded pleased by that reaction, he thought. Happy. James was happy.

“Yes.” The single word might’ve been teasing, or amused, too, but it wasn’t. Purely honest.

James smiled again, tropical tides drifting in to warm up those endless eyes. “I missed you, too.” And then moved again, finding or relearning their rhythm, both of them together, and Michael couldn’t answer, could barely even think, with James around him, above him, loving him.

So close. _Too_ close, he thought, desperately. He was going to come, but James wasn’t, not yet, not as near to the peak as he was. Obviously interested, aroused and hard for him, cock curving up against that too-flat stomach; but not _there_ , where Michael was already trembling on the edge.

Not as sensitive, he remembered, with a sudden pang. Scar tissue. Dull places. In the wake of that reminder he pulled one hand away from its comfortable spot on a thin hip. Brought it lower, between those parted legs, to the point where he could feel himself buried inside James. The startled tides washed through the ocean-water eyes again, at that, leaving them round with surprise.

“You—”

“No,” Michael told him, softly, “you,” and ran his fingers over skin and scars, collecting all the enthusiastic slickness, grateful now about his earlier exuberance with the lube; and then brought his hand back around. Rested the fingers, more slippery this time, against James’s cock. “Can I touch you?”

James clearly recognized the question; the blue eyes lit up, sunlight over the water, and there was a renewed smile in that luxurious voice when he gave the equally familiar answer. “Yes, you can.”

“Thank you,” Michael said, fervently, and James laughed, and Michael wrapped his hand around all that hardness and stroked, James’s cock gliding through his fingers. And James moaned his name. Shuddered everywhere.

“Good?”

“Yes—!”

“More?”

Just another moan, this time. The best sound he’d ever heard.

So he did it again. And again, until James gasped his name, hips arching forward into the caress. “I have to—I’m going to—”

“Yes,” Michael told him, “you are,” and then, “I love you,” and James gasped again and tightened around him, muscles clamping down, cock pulsing with release, across Michael’s fingers, over both of them, and Michael lost the last shreds of his own self-control at the sight and followed, vision blurring into white-hot ecstasy.

He pulled James down against him, after, disregarding all the stickiness. Held them together, for a timeless while.

Eventually, he felt James stir, trying to unobtrusively change positions; Michael opened his eyes, immediately, and loosened the embrace. “What is it? Did I—does something hurt?”

“No.” James blinked at him, drowsily. “I just wanted to move my knee. It’s not entirely comfortable being bent that way.”

“Oh. I’m sorry.” He tried to scoot over and make more space at the side of the bed; James laughed, and then, gingerly, eased himself up and off of Michael altogether. Shut his eyes, briefly, at the slide of flesh against flesh; Michael fought the impulse to grab at him in support, because the abrupt movement wouldn’t help, but did very slowly move his hands back to those hips, and attempted to assist as unobtrusively as he could.

James settled down beside him, in the marvelous disaster of the sheets and the sunlight. Put his head back on Michael’s shoulder. Sighed.

“I love you. Are you all right?”

“Love you. Um…yes. I think so.”

“Can you look at me and say that?”

James twisted around, in his arms. Strands of copper-bright hair tickled Michael’s face, gleefully, with the new position, but he didn’t bother to complain. “How’s this? And yes, I’m all right…”

“Better. Thank you.”

“…though I kind of feel like I should want to cry. But I’m not going to. I don’t think.”

“You—I _made you cry?”_

“No! I said you _didn’t_ make me cry. I just feel like I ought to. I don’t think I’m explaining this well, am I?”

“No…”

“Not because anything hurts. Or because it wasn’t good. It was fantastic. I think that’s why.”

“Still concerned.”

“Because I thought I could—we wouldn’t have done this, you would’ve stopped, if I didn’t think I could, I know that—but I didn’t expect it to be…beautiful.”

“Oh,” Michael said, very softly, “oh, my god,” and then caught himself blinking, because apparently James’s tears had snuck over into his eyes without either of them noticing.

James reached up. Skimmed a thumbtip over wet eyelashes. Blinked his own, which were also looking suspiciously damp. “I didn’t say that because I wanted you to cry _for_ me, you know. And also I love you. And thank you.”

“I’m not crying. I just…love you. A lot. And don’t—you don’t have to thank me. I should be thanking you.”

“For having sex with you? Or because I said I’d make breakfast, today? You did say you were hungry and—”

That sentence got cut off by a very emphatic kiss; when they surfaced, James was smiling. “Maybe I should have sex with you more often, if you’re going to be this affectionate after…”

“You—really? You want to do this—”

“More often? I think so, yes. Though I meant it about the waffles, too, in case that was your question.”

Those eyes were sparkling at him, satisfied and amused. Not displaying any pain. And completely, spectacularly, unquestionably happy. Michael took a deep breath and said, “James?”

“Hmm?”

“About breakfast…you know the last time we went to the store…”

“I do know the last time we went to the store. I was there. And I will be there with you again next week. What about it?”

“Well…it was on sale, and I know you like raspberries…”

“I’m a little worried about where you’re going with this, considering what we’ve just been using. Also I love you. Just in case I forgot to tell you enough.”

“…I love you too. I might’ve, um. Bought raspberry-flavored syrup for you and your waffles.”

And the entire golden morning echoed with the sound, when James laughed again, in his arms.


End file.
